Oft as she taught the little maids of France
To leave the garland, catanet, and dance,

Oft as she taught the little maids of France
To leave the garland, catanet, and dance,
And listen to the words which she would say
About the crowns that never fade away,
A new expression kindled in her eye,
A holy brightness borrowed from the sky,
And when returning to her native land,
She bowed beneath a father’s chast’ning hand;
When the quick pulse and flush upon the cheek,
A touching warning to her friends would speak,
A holy cheerfulness yet filled her eye,
Willing she was to live, willing to die.
As the good Shunamite (the Scriptures tell),
When her son died, said meekly, “It is well,”
So when Sophia lost her infant boy,
And felt how dear-bought is a mother’s joy,
When with green turf the little grave she spread,
“Not lost, but gone before,” she meekly said.
And now they sleep together ’neath the willow,
The same dew drops upon their silent pillow.
Return, O mourner, from this double grave,
And praise the God who all her graces gave.
Follow her faith, and let her mantle be
A cloak of holy zeal to cover thee.

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